Chapter Sixty-One
“ H e is not capable of making this decision, so I will make it for him.”
Finlay Fjolla stands behind Draven, his pale face and snowy hair caked in blood and dirt.
Tynan looks at him with approval in his eyes. “You always have been the more sensible one.”
Finlay bites down, flexing his jaw, before he drops his eyes to the thick ice club resting in his hand—the weapon he used to knock Draven unconscious. “He won’t forgive me for this,” Finlay starts, eyes rippling. “But he would never forgive himself for whatever he decided today, either.”
After a remorse-coated moment, Finlay remembers himself and sets his features with icy indifference, stepping to the side and looking at the one he’s surmised to be Casimir Vivaldri, just as he’s sure his brother had.
“Take her,” Finlay demands. “Before he wakes up.”
Casimir inclines his head. “Thank you.” He reaches her in three strides, kneeling beside her and tracing the destruction carved into Lyra’s body. He drops his head. “Why must it always come to this?” he whispers.
Finlay is surprised by how soft and caring the words sound.
Casimir glances over his shoulder at Tynan, then at Finlay. “Give me just a moment, and we’ll be on our way.” Then he lifts his hand into the air, and rippling branches of golden light appear, ripping through the sky like a glowing scar, streaming into his palm .
One-by-one, wielders collapse. Finlay surveys the scene, realizing Casimir is reaching for every remaining healer’s magic, sending their eyes rolling to the back of their heads as they fall.
The golden light gets brighter; the translucent orb in his palm gets larger.
Until he slams the golden beam into Lyra’s chest, an explosion of glittering light ricocheting like living sparks.
A warm, humming glow swallows her, and within a handful of seconds, Lyra’s body is restitched with new skin. And even if that skin is still raw, blistered, and painful to even look at, it is a considerable upgrade from the charred ruin obliterating her body before.
Casimir cradles her in his arms and rises.
Lyra’s limp body hangs like a lifeless doll.
He strokes the crisp sprouts of hair she has left and observes her with tender eyes. “I will save you,” he promises in such a low voice, Finlay almost misses the words.
Casimir turns his back to everyone. He turns his chin over his shoulder, and his eyes trace the remains of every fallen Abdite as he strides past—as if acknowledging each one.
Someone runs past Finlay in a blur, making for Casimir Vivaldri.
He is stunned when he realizes it is Gray Nightenjoy.
When Gray reaches him, he is panting in ragged breaths. Casimir turns slowly to face him, keeping Lyra close to his chest.
“I hate you for what you’re doing,” Gray says, voice quivering. “But please—” he pulls his tattered shirt over his head and gently covers Lyra’s bare chest with it “—allow me to give her this. Let her keep it with her, no matter where you take her.”
Casimir watches Gray silently for a long moment. “Alright,” he finally murmurs. “I promise that I will.”
And then he turns again, walking away.
“We will find her,” Gray calls out. “No matter where you go. No matter where you take her. We will find her, and we will bring her home.”
Casimir only spares him a glance over his shoulder. With Lyra still clutched in his arms, he flicks his wrist, and a portal composed of swirling silver, white, and blue blinks open.
And as Finlay watches Casimir step through, taking Lyra with him, all he can do is replay the power he watched the girl wield.
It lingers with him like an unattractive scar.
Because she, a night attendant with commonblood, possesses arguably the most powerful magic ever seen in the history of the Three Kingdoms.
Just wait until his father finds out.
Oh, how he will laugh.
He will take the knowledge and stab Finlay in the chest with it, twisting the handle deeper and deeper as he stares into Finlay’s eyes, reciting like a fond poem all the reasons why Finlay is inadequate—is unsuited to be the Fjolla heir.
Not deigning to consider all that further, Finlay slides his gaze to Draven, who remains slumped on the ground, still unconscious.
When he wakes up…
Gods, when Draven wakes, Merikh’s realm of death will seem like a paradise compared to the hell he will wreak on this continent to get her back— if he can get her back without sacrificing the only other person he has ever known Draven to love.
A person Finlay is almost positive he did not tell Lyra about.
Finlay drops his head and presses a hand to his forehead. When he finally looks up, he catches a glimpse of Casimir and Lyra vanishing into the portal, just before it winks out of existence.
And then they are gone.